


Worried

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is working too hard; Moran is worried about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worried

The colonel is always slightly on edge; he’s always hyper-aware of his surroundings, and he’s nimble too. With his lean build he’s able to dodge away quickly and these factors have proved invaluable in more than one pub brawl, and in eluding a few enraged tigers. His turn of speed and his highly honed senses also turn out to be able to save him now from being smacked in the face with a flying coffee cup.  
  


   He senses more than sees it, although he could hardly miss the professor’s accompanying cry of, “I told you to stay out, you infuriating woman!”, and he ducks swiftly. The cup goes sailing over his head and shatters against the wall, splashing cold coffee over the patterned wallpaper.

   “Not going well?” he says brightly, straightening up again and strolling over towards the professor’s desk.

   Moriarty looks at him, a murderous look in his eyes, apparently not in the slightest bit appeased to find Moran in his rooms instead of his maid. “Sebastian, get out; I’ve already told you once today.”

   “That was two days ago, sir.” Moran fiddles with some papers on the desk, before Moriarty smartly slaps a ruler down on the back of his hand.

   “Don’t touch my things without my permission!”

   Moran grimaces. Even with his gloves still on it smarts a bit, and he’d really rather the professor didn’t hit him on the hands. He needs his hands intact for his work (and besides, being smacked on the arse is much more fun). “Sorry sir.”

   “What are you doing here?”

    Moran throws himself into the spare chair. “Got nothing better to do and I was, well, passing and I was… you know…”

   “No, I don’t know.” Moriarty rather looks as if he’s about to blow his fuse at any second, but Moran is reasonably secure in the knowledge that the professor probably isn’t going to kill him today, if only because he needs him to assassinate a minor European royal next week.

   “Worried about you.” Moran say this very hurriedly, trying to cover it with a cough. He pulls off his gloves and scrutinises the back of his hand, rubbing at it.

   Moriarty seems to go from rage to moderate anger to puzzlement in half a second. “Why on earth would you be worried about me?” he enquires.

   Moran looks up, meeting the professor’s gaze momentarily before he eyes the collection of empty cups on the desk, and on the floor, and the ashtrays overflowing with cigarette stubs. “You’ve drunk enough coffee to keep an army going for a month; you’ve smoked more cigarettes in the past few days than I’ve seen you smoke in a year and your maid says you haven’t eaten for three days; all you’ve had is your coffee. Won’t even let her in to take away the used cups either, I see.” He picks up the nearest cup and examines it. The dregs have dried on the bottom of the cup. They appear slightly… furry. He pulls a face and sets it down again. “It ain’t healthy, sir; you need fresh air; food too, not to be stuck away in here scribbling, and I bet you haven’t slept since I last saw you, now have you?”

   “I’m working on an important paper, as well you know. It’s imperative I get it completed by tomorrow.”

   “Well you ain’t gonna get it done if you collapse from lack of food and sleep, are you?”

   “And why precisely should you care?” Moriarty enquires. “You are merely hired help.”

   Moran sniffs. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, seeing as you are under stress and all.” He bounds out of his chair again and stalks off around the room.

   “That will not interest you, Colonel,” Moriarty calls when Moran pauses to examine a book lying on the table. “There are no pictures of nude ladies in it.”

   Moran gives him a withering look over his shoulder, although he’s interrupted before he says anything by a timid knock at the door.

   “Go away!” Moriarty shouts, but Moran goes to open it. “Mr Moran!” he yells at him, which is bad; he rarely calls him ‘ _Mr_  Moran’. Moran already has the door open though and is saying something to whoever is out there. When he turns around he’s holding a tray with a pot of tea and two clean cups on it, along with plates of sandwiches and biscuits.

   “I took the liberty of having food sent up for you,” he says, looking around for a space to set down the tray which is not already cluttered with cups.

   “A very  _great_  liberty,” Moriarty remarks tersely, his fingers clenching around his pen.

   “You’re welcome.” Moran grins at him. He finally finds a clear space and puts down the tray.

   Moriarty watches him in strained silence as he pours the tea, filling both cups, he notes. “You are intending to stay, are you?” he queries when Moran sets one of the cups down on the desk in front of him.

   “Yes sir.”

   “And if I command you to leave?”

   “Then I will disregard your orders, sir, on the basis that I believe you presently unfit to be issuing them.” Moran returns to the tray and puts some of the little sandwiches onto a plate. “Here,” he says, holding it under Moriarty’s nose.

   Moriarty stares at it, then at Moran. “Moran, I do not need food; I do not need tea; I certainly do not need you around, cluttering the place up; I need peace and quiet and more coffee.”

   Yet still Moran, that infuriating man, neither moves away nor looks in the slightest bit afraid of him. The professor thinks that he may have to do something about his gunman’s insolence. Not today though. There is no time for games today.

   “Just eat the bloody sandwiches,” Moran says. “Unless you think I’ve had the maid put poison in ‘em.”

   “No, you would shoot me or stab me if you were going to kill me,” Moriarty says. “Poison is hardly your style.”

   “Then eat. Please, Professor.” Moran continues to hold the sandwiches out to him and he’s not quite begging, but he is definitely genuinely concerned rather than simply making demands to try and assert his dominance over the professor.

   Moriarty swiftly debates throwing the sandwiches on the floor and smacking Moran with the plate or just knocking him out with a well-placed punch. Annoyingly though, Moran is probably right. He’s been finding it harder and harder to focus these past few hours and has definitely been feeling a little light-headed. The pain in his shoulders and neck from hunching over to write is worsening too, which isn’t helping matters.

   He takes the plate, although he pointedly doesn’t say thank you. He tries to ignore Moran’s slight little crooked smile as he takes the first bite. It’s irksome, that he always likes to see Moran smile so – genuinely pleased by something Moriarty has said or done. Moran wouldn’t smile at him like that for a long time, always suspicious that there was some snide, sarcastic remark hidden in the praise the professor gave him, or perhaps simply believing that Moriarty would soon dispense with him. When Moran finally began to trust him enough to accept the praise for what it was, or when he began to react to the professor with warmth and amusement and not wariness, Moriarty had actually felt a bit proud.

   What is even worse though now is that when he has eaten the first sandwich, he finds himself wanting to eat another just to see if Moran will smile again now. He shouldn’t be catering to the whims of his employee; he should be the one maintaining control, and yet… a good master keeps his servants contented. Moran always worries so when the professor shows any signs of illness or physical weakness, even though he consistently tries to hide his concern, and he cannot have Moran being distracted by fears for his wellbeing now.

   Moriarty takes another sandwich and tries to make it appear that he is paying no attention to Moran while he regards him out of the corner of his eye. Moran gives him that fond, slightly amused look he usually gives Moriarty when the professor drags him off to feed pigeons. It makes Moriarty feel strangely warm inside. Even stranger, he’s aware that he no longer feels angry with his right hand man for taking liberties. He might even be glad to have the company for a bit. For all of Moran’s faults, he does know when to keep his mouth shut and sit still. Perhaps it would be pleasant to have him around for a little while.

   They both sit there, both pretending they’re not watching the other. Moriarty eats his sandwiches; Moran sips his tea. Neither of them says anything. Only when Moriarty starts on his fourth sandwich does Moran set down his cup and move again. Moriarty tries to turn his head to watch him, then is prevented from doing so by the stiffness in his neck.

   Suddenly Moran’s large, strong hands are on his shoulders. It occurs to Moriarty that Moran might quite like strangling him – strangulation being a more personal method of killing a man than poison. He carefully pushes this thought aside. “Moran,” he says, “you are taking liberties again.”

   “Cos you’re in pain; I can tell, and I know you; you’d not ask me for my help, even though I’m bloody good at this.” Moran, with precisely the right balance of gentleness and firmness, kneads at the stiff, aching muscles in Moriarty’s neck.

   “I’m perfectly- ah.  _Ah._ ” Moriarty stops talking, or at least talking coherently, when Moran moves his hand a bit lower down his shoulder. It feels nice. He would ask where the colonel learned how to do this but he is aware the man spends a fair amount of time in the Turkish baths, making use of the various services provided there (some official and some… less so, though Moriarty would prefer not to think about the latter).

   “Just eat your sandwiches, sir,” Moran says, working the tension out of Moriarty’s stiff muscles with skill and a level of tenderness that might be surprising, except Moriarty has seen the way Moran handles a rifle so he knows full well that the man is capable of treating things with, well, love?

   He chews thoughtfully on his next bite of sandwich. He is starting to feel much better now, which is most vexing because clearly that means he was wrong and Moran was right. He will really have to see about disciplining Moran shortly then. He may be right but he’s not allowed to be so  _forward_ , or to look so smug about being correct.

   “Stop smirking, Colonel,” he says.

   “I’m not smirking.”

   “I can see you in the reflection on that trophy over there; you’re looking thoroughly too pleased with yourself.”

   Moran tries to rearrange his face into a more sombre expression. “Sorry sir.” He gives Moriarty’s shoulder a last squeeze. “Feel better now?”

   Moriarty turns his head this way, then that. There’s no stiffness and little pain now. “Much better; thank you, Moran.”

   “You’re welcome, sir.” Moran is just about to move away from behind him when some mischievous impulse seizes him. He leans over and places a kiss on top of Moriarty’s head.

   “Sebastian.”

   “Sorry sir.”

   “You’re not sorry; you’re smirking again.”

   “Yeah, all right, I’m not actually sorry.” Moran saunters over and fetches the plate of biscuits. “Here; I know you have a sweet tooth,” he says, putting the plate down before he sits down on the edge of the desk, close to Moriarty. He helps himself to one and puts the entire thing in his mouth in one go.

   “Moran, you have the manners of a pig sometimes.”

   “You still like me though,” Moran says when he’s swallowed most, but not all, of the biscuit.

   “Only because I am perfectly aware that you are being deliberately provocative.”

   “Aye, there is that. So…” Moran cups his hand beneath the professor’s jaw. “You planning on sleeping tonight?”

   “I have to finish this.”

   “Well… s’pose you won’t be needing your bed then.”

   “That does not mean you can use it. You have a perfectly good bed of your own; a perfectly good  _house_  of your own, in fact.”

   “And yet you  _want_  me to stay here.” Moran smiles as he leans in and kisses Moriarty on the lips.

   “You’re being highly presumptive,” Moriarty informs him after a few moments.

   “I’m being accurate.” Moran kisses him again, mouth open this time. The kiss tastes of biscuit. “You know sir,” he says, his face still close to Moriarty’s, “if you need me to, ah, relieve your stress in any other way, I’d be happy to do that.” He gives a suggestive look downwards.

   “That will not be necessary, thank you Moran.”

   “Sure?”

   “Quite sure, thank you.”

   “Well, offer’s there if you change your mind,” Moran says, brushing a few crumbs off the professor’s waistcoat.

   Moriarty has never entirely understood what Moran gets from pleasuring him with his mouth. He understands that it can be fascinating to see another person reduced to such helplessness, which is why he himself has experimented upon Moran on a few rare occasions, but he finds many elements of the act somewhat distasteful. Moran though has always seemed highly enthusiastic about giving, as well as receiving.

   “I’ll bear that in mind,” he says wryly, reaching for a biscuit.

   “Well.” Moran leans back, continuing to perch on the edge of the desk with the toes of his boots digging into the carpet. “I suppose now I’ve seen you finally eat something, I should be off.” He makes no sign of moving though.

   “I thought you were intent on staying for the night?”

   Moran lowers his gaze now. “Only if you do want me to.”

   So Moriarty’s pet tiger does still know his place then. He looks almost bashful, but obviously hopeful. Now if Moriarty told the colonel to leave, he would leave, and if he asks him to stay…

   “Stay,” Moriarty says, taking Moran’s hand – the one he smacked with the ruler earlier. “I would appreciate your company tonight.”

   “Yes sir.”

   “I shall expect you to be quiet, however.”

   “Of course.”

   “That includes no snoring.”

   Moran rolls his eyes. “ _I_  am not the one who snores, Professor; you are.”

   Moriarty raises both eyebrows. “I do not snore.”

   Moran just laughs.


End file.
